This story begins on the West Side of Syracuse, where two boys grew up together in and near James Geddes Housing.

One was Ray Kyles, who was being raised by his grandparents on Gifford Street, and the other was my nephew, Charles Cook Jr., who lived with his sister and brother and my sister Karol in the projects.

Ray and Charles were close enough that people would often call them Ray-Charles. They had different ideas, however, about attending school. Charles followed a predictable route for so many black boys: elementary school and then a downward spiral of sporadic attendance in the later grades and finally dropping out. Ray’s grandmother had drummed it in his head that he had better stay in school.

After school was another thing. “I was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” They would hang out and “do anything and everything,” gambling and then taking winnings to buy drugs to sell. “We were always trying to mastermind some scheme to make money.”

Ray graduated from high school and convinced Charles that they should join the Army under the buddy system. Then, young men without a high school education could get a GED during basic training. Charles wouldn’t answer the door when the recruiters came to pick them up.

Ray would serve in the Army for four years. He gained confidence, but it didn’t change him altogether. “Naturally I met the same kind of kids in the military I was running from. There were more drugs than in the street. I found new ways to scheme.”

When Ray got out, he and Charles didn’t hang out as much. Ray didn’t like Charles’ new “crew.”

It was 1993, and Charles was doing a short stint in Jamesville Correctional Facility on a domestic charge — remarkably, the only time he had served any real time. I would visit and pray with him. He had dreams. He wanted to open up a detail shop, take care of his mother and daughter. He gave his life to the Lord. We were so optimistic. My sister was working in Georgia and was coming home for his release — hoping she could finally exhale.

To our surprise, Charles had been released from Jamesville, and yet my sister hadn’t seen him and had to return home on Sunday, Nov. 7, 1993.

In the meantime, Ray had caught up with Charles and planned to watch the Mike Tyson-Evander Holyfield fight on that Saturday. Charles never showed up.

My sister and I arrived at my mother’s house, and she was sitting in a chair, looking glassy-eyed. I thought she was sick, but my sister knew instinctively what was wrong.

Is it Charles? she asked.

My mother just nodded her head “yes.”

Is he dead?

My mother nodded her head “yes.”

Charles, 27, had been shot several times in a house on Kellogg Street, on the West Side.

The headlines never tell the true story of the wailing mamas, the paralyzed fathers, the traumatized siblings, friends and other family members. The children.

Ray was stunned, but he had an epiphany. The Monday after Charles’ funeral, he headed up to Onondaga Community College. He was going back to school. No more Jekyll and Hyde. “I figured I could spend nine years in school or nine years in jail.”

He got a 4.0 his first semester. He went to Syracuse University. He worked two part-time jobs while going to law school, one in the law library until 1 a.m. He graduated with honors. He eventually went back to church, becoming a member of Abundant Life Christian Center. He met Shantina Hines, a nurse at the VA Medical Center.

They are to be married today.

The irony of ironies: Ray became the public defender in Utica. He would meet young men exactly like himself and tell them the Ray-Charles story — “how tragedy can be turned into triumph.”

I am so glad to tell his story. I want him to shout to every black boy who needs a touchable example of success .

I want them to know that he crushed the statistics and rewrote the script.

I want them to see themselves in his reflection.

Charles, whose killer has never been found, is dead.

But Ray, who is an assistant state attorney general in the Syracuse office, is alive — and well.